she sits in the bathtub
back to her infinite melancholy
a paperback thriller sitting on the side of the bath.
she reads them to feel something
horror or even a twisted joy.

her mirrors have crayon on them
make me real, more than a doll
she begs at the foot of her bed.

people say she is lost
that's not the problem.
she knows where she is too well
how can you explore
when all you see are finished maps?

she knows who she is
but she doesn't know how she feels

she's a product of her environment
a blank person from blank walls.